


Green

by zamwessell



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Childhood Friends, Gwen Stacy I love you and I'm sorry, M/M, Parksborn, Pining, Spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but for a while harry gets his wish, it ends the same way though, less of a fix-it than a fuck-it-up more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zamwessell/pseuds/zamwessell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a while, Harry Osborn gets what he wished for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh no, a new fandom! just three days before Days of Future Past hits theaters, I get bitten by the radioactive plot-spider-bunny that is Dane Dehaan's performance as Harry Osborn. *shakes fist at world*

Harry isn't sure where it started.

No, that's not true. It started when they were too little to notice it starting.

It started that winter of snotty pillowcases and Peter borrowing his pajamas and Peter crying into a pillow when he thought Harry couldn't hear him. It started with Harry climbing into the bed – that was what best friends were _for_ , he thought, to make things okay when they weren't, and saying, "Sorry, I couldn't sleep, I was cold," and that was a lie, but when you were nine it was better than "Hey, I'm here, I care" and Peter understood it anyway. Harry remembers falling asleep to the sound of his steady breathing and waking up with all the covers gone.

Later, at boarding school, on a mattress that shouldn't have squeaked given how much tuition cost – on a mattress that, to be fair, should have been capable of curing cancer if they were going by how much tuition cost – these recollections warped into something else. The bunk above him squeaked. Peter Parker. Peter Parker.

 _It wasn't like that, then,_ he reminded himself, sliding a hand into his pajamas. _It was never like the way you're making it, we were best friends, that was all. We were there for each other. Don't make it into something that it wasn't. It was innocent, whatever it was. So what. Big whoop. You'll never see him again. Focus on something you can have._

 _You can have anything. You're an Osborn._ The bunk above him squeaked. _Whatever you want you can have._ Squeak.

He frowned up at the bunk. "You're keeping me awake."

"Sorry, Osborn," the roommate said, sheepish – Dalton? he thinks. Can't remember the name.

"Get down here," Harry heard himself say. "I can do something about that."

And that was the start of it, the other thing. Knees bruised from kneeling on bathroom tiles and impudent knowing glances at half the football team and – that part fit well. He'd always suspected it would.

The only guys he avoided were the nice ones. The ones that looked like Peter were one thing. The ones who acted like him – no. Never those. He knows what happens when you start to care. You get put into a car and shunted off somewhere where nobody knows anything about you except that you're rich.

The school psychologist said he was acting out in an effort to get his father's attention.

"I sure am," he said, adjusting his sunglasses. "And look how well that's working out for me."

Shunted off to boarding school. Shunted all around the world. Pictures in magazines with models. How his father arranged that he has no idea. Nobody who knows him would believe it for a second.

But Norman Osborn has always had a way of arranging things.

\--

And then it ends, in a dark room with a sick old gargoyle of a man wheezing out his life.

No. Not ends. Starts.

Harry doesn't know.

Where it starts is when he gets called out of a meeting and there's Peter Parker waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm here," Peter says, and Harry tries to say he's in a meeting, but – it's Peter Parker. It's Peter Parker and it's a nightmare. It's Peter Parker and it's like he stepped out of Harry's most self-indulgent fantasies from cold nights in a bottom bunk. _Damn,_ Harry thinks. _You were always perfect but you didn't use to be tall._

And he's still terrifyingly Parker. He still mumbles and um's and hands-in-pockets his way through a speech about how he wants to help. And Harry has no idea what to say. Peter steps closer like he's looking for something. An eleven year-old boy, probably. That would be the Harry he recognizes. But Harry doesn't know where that boy is. Wouldn't begin to know how to look for him.

"Thank you," he says, "but I'm kind of in a meeting."

Parker starts to go, muttering apologies. That is one thing Harry cannot allow. He fumbles for a way to stop it.

"I see you finally got your braces off," he calls.

Peter turns with an expression Harry recognizes on a face that he's beginning to.

"Now there's nothing to distract from your unibrow," Harry finishes, and Peter's smile is like spring. _Not spring,_ Harry thinks. _That's dumb. That's cliched. Peter's smile is -_ \- 

"There he is, there he is!" and Peter's laughing, and the laugh -- it's a thousand times better than the smile. It's a thousand times worse. It's like a match struck inside Harry's chest. "You still blow dry your hair?"

"My manservant holds the hair dryer," Harry says, "but at least I get control of the comb, so I'm not entirely helpless."

And if Peter will smile at that, then -- maybe Peter is starting to see him too.

 --

They cover miles of city, Peter gregarious, sliding down railings, Harry following, trying to play it cool, be the Harry that Peter remembers. It's easier to be that Harry with Peter there laughing, egging him on, tossing rocks, shifting his backpack. As long as Peter still exists, that Harry still exists. It is startling to feel that old rhythm starting up between them, easy as muscle memory.

It is a remarkable discovery, a minor miracle, like showing up in a summer house and finding the yogurt in the fridge is still edible. _No,_ Harry thinks, _not that, that's the worst analogy imaginable. That's worse than spring_.

Peter asks about the models in the magazine.

Harry leaves unsaid that the only reason anyone ever winds up between the covers of a glossy magazine surrounded by bikini models is because that's the precise opposite of what he generally winds up with between the sheets. Let Dad keep that one last lie. 

Instead he grins at Peter Parker daredeviling over the railing and says, "You got a lady?"

Yes. No. I don't know. I don't know, it's complicated, Peter says, looking everywhere, unaccountably nervous.

Harry meets the look, gaze level, just that one shade too pointed that he's spent years perfecting. "I don't do complicated."

It's already flirtier than he means it to be. He keeps forgetting: this is Peter, but this is Peter eight years down the line. This is Peter, he tells himself, but he hasn't had the chance to meet you the way you are now, hasn't heard you talking to him in the mirror these past ten years, when the image in your head was still a boy with braces who was kind and frightened.

He tries to bluff it out. _Hate complicated,_ he thinks, _bullshit. This is complicated already. I can feel it tangling just as I'm saying it. Just as I'm looking at you. Fucking Peter Parker. You had to be beautiful, too, on top of everything else._

Peter looks at him and Harry can tell it went over his head. 

"Her name's Gwen," Peter says. "She works for you, actually."

"Oh," Harry says, putting the smile in his mouth and his eyes, "is she a model employee?"

 _This is going to be complicated,_ he thinks.

\--

They're sprawled on his couch. It's like old times, except that old times didn't involve a bottle of scotch. Except that old times involved cartoons, not HBO, and in old times Peter's eyes were hidden behind glasses and Harry didn't have to look directly into their blinding warmth. 

It is amazing how rapidly they pass through a missed decade. 

This girl Gwen is everywhere in what Peter says; it's like he has to try not to mention her, and he isn't succeeding at all. He says they broke up. Harry believes it. But Peter knows what she would think about things she hasn't even seen. Harry recognizes the symptoms, knows it's bad. _This is one you can't just uproot_ , he thinks. He stares at the glass of scotch jittering in his hand. He looks at Peter and his warm dark eyes refracted through the brown liquid and cut crystal. It is easier to look at him that way. _This is one you can't just uproot, either._

Harry's talking, telling a story. That story. The story he uses to account for everything. It usually works wonders.

"With compliments, Norman," Harry says. "That's what it said. A bottle of scotch for my sixteenth birthday. With compliments, Norman." He looks up at Peter. 

"No!" Peter says. And Peter does the unthinkable. He laughs. "Did you keep the card? Did you – oh my gosh, how perfect, Harry, that's – I bet your old man was mortified."

"We weren't like that," Harry says.

"Scotch though, that's a killer – that's a killer gift, right?" Peter says, turning on an elbow. "For a sixteen year-old boy? I bet you were the most popular kid there."

Harry shrugs, purses his lips. "In some ways."

"And you love scotch. Look at this place. You love scotch, you have like sixteen different vintages of scotch here in the library—"

"It doesn't come in vintages," Harry says, mock-exasperated.

"Oh, pardon me, Mr. Osborn," Peter says, poking him in the ribs, and Harry's laugh comes out noisy and unexpected and strangely twisted. Peter shouldn't laugh. Harry shouldn't laugh. At this. This is the thing that hurt. This is the thing that hurt for so long.

But Harry laughs until he's gasping for breath.

"Compliments, Norman!" Peter murmurs, and the laugh comes again in another fit, wrong and splendid. It makes Harry think of the first time he masturbated, how when he started coming he thought something horrible was about to happen, and it was wonderful instead, the world split at the seams and shivered back together. He thinks he could laugh like this forever.

"Easy, Har," Peter says, grinning.

Harry makes himself be still. Or Peter makes him. He is not sure how much of the stillness comes from himself. There is still the Osborn twitch. 

\--

"This is your fault, Peter," Harry announces. The sun is setting over New York City. They are lying on his roof, looking up.

The day has been perfect. Laughter and – cronuts and – soup dumplings and – Frisbee (Parker is unexpectedly good at Frisbee, it must be the wrist) and ice cream, and talking, or saying nothing, and it's all so comfortable it's strange. Harry pays for everything. He is accustomed to paying for everything; Peter is only accustomed to _offering_ to pay, and that is a very different thing. Harry tells him so, licking ice cream off the end of one finger, grinning, and Peter only shrugs, suddenly diffident. These sudden feints of confidence are new. The Peter Harry remembers was only shy. That Peter he could have withstood. This one is impossible.

This has the potential to be quite complicated.

"What's my fault?"

Harry just looks at him. Peter doesn't seem able to read the expression.

"Eight years," Peter says. "You never write, you never call—"

Harry laughs. He hates his laugh, he decides. It's nothing like Parker's laugh, which is dopey, to be sure, but – endearing. Like the rest of him. Perfect.

 _Not this again,_ _Harry,_ he thinks. _He's your friend. Just have a friend for once._ _A friend._ _As if boarding school didn't poison that particular well._ ("You will make friends to last a lifetime," his father said, putting him in the car. _Not friends_ , Harry thought, _people I addressed by their last names while they fucked me or I fucked them, not friends.)_

_Parker's a friend. Not that you'd mind panting that particular last name –_

_Not that again, Harry._

_Best friend,_ he supplies. _Only friend,_ that one corner of his mind echoes. _But you won't be contented with that, will you? You have to keep picking at it. Your father would be proud._

"I got dumped," he says, instead. "So did you. I didn't like dwelling on it. I had to move on."

"Which reminds me," Peter asks. "How was boarding school?"

"They seemed bewildered that I brought my manservant," Harry says, grinning. "But, I mean, the hair—I needed another pair of hands--"

"Sure, you had to—"

"Required."

"Absolutely."

They both laugh. "Nobody teased you, or anything?" Peter asks.

"The Osborn boy?" Harry frowns. "Wouldn't dare." He settles his arms behind his head. "Whoever said money can't buy friends never had money, Parker."

"I'm sure you had only the most expensive friends, Harry," Peter says.

"The only trouble is it can't buy friends who don't just like you for your money," Harry says.

"Oh my God," Peter says, "that's the most expensive problem I've ever heard."

"It can buy yachts, though," Harry says.

He can feel Peter's eyes roll. If this were a date (it's not a date) it would be the best that one's ever gone in his entire life. "Well, people do like yachts," Peter says, "but I always was more of a fox-hunting man myself."

Harry doesn't mean to laugh so hard. It's embarrassing. It would be mortifying except he can feel that Peter doesn't mind. Everyone else minded. It has been years since he laughed like that. He has locked so many things up so carefully. And then along comes Peter with his old key and opens them up again. He feels like if this laugh were a physical thing it would have dust all over it.

"What are you thinking?" Peter asks.

"What am I thinking?"

"Penny for your thoughts."

"My thoughts are way beyond your pay grade." Harry says. "Besides, when did you turn into Mr. Sensitive I Want To Hear About Your Problems Parker?"

"Gwen used to always ask before she – before -- we broke up," Peter says. "I liked knowing that someone cared about what I was thinking."

Harry tries to roll his eyes audibly. "I'm not going to be your rebound, Parker," Harry says. "If that's what you're thinking."

"Would I do that to you?" Peter asks, and Harry's stomach turns sullenly over and over like a punctured tire rolling to a halt. _The only reason he can joke like that is because he's unfathomably straight, Harry_. "Please. What do you think of me? You are nobody's rebound." Parker settles onto his side, wide warm joking grin. _Joking, Harry._ "You're much too beautiful."

 _Oh God,_ Harry thinks,  _it_ _'s been years since I felt straight enough to bluff convincingly in a game like this._ "Oh, sure, Parker, you dog," he begins, all high melodrama. "You call me beautiful, but I know what you really are. And don't think that just because I let you kiss me behind the monkey bars at an impressionable age I'm just going to put out—"

"I didn't know you remembered that," Peter says.

"Oh," Harry says, taking it up another notch, because this has to be unserious, Peter can't just snap out of it now, that's unfair, Harry feels exposed, "you don't even remember! That was the greatest day of my young life, but to you it's one more kiss in an endless parade!"

"I thought I was the only one who remembered that," Peter says, and Harry rolls over onto his stomach, exasperated.

"Well," he says, voice back to its usual dry tone, "I've been told I'm a memorable kisser."

Parker laughs, and somehow this seems to be when the awkwardness of the situation has chosen to hit him. Parker settles back on his back, gazing up. "Well, it's funny what you remember."

Harry swats him, idly. "Yeah, funny."

Peter swats him back.

"Ow!" Harry says.

"Oh no, did I hurt you?" Peter asks. "I didn't mean to."

"No," Harry says. "You never do, do you?"

They settle on their backs staring up at the sky again. After a while Harry glances over at Peter. He's smiling, looking up. Harry wonders who he's thinking of. His dark eyes catch the reflection of all the lights in the night sky. Harry wants to lean over him, blot the rest of the sky out.


	2. Chapter 2

 "You ever been on a yacht?" Harry asks.

"You ask that like it's a real question," Peter says.

"It is a real question."

"No."

"Want to?"

Peter lets out a startled-sounding chuckle. "Sure, okay. You got one?"

"Please," Harry says. "Of course we have one. We're not _savages_."

\--

The yacht pulls out into the harbor and Peter shoots Harry a look, incredulous and delighted all at once. It's been weeks now. Peter seems happier. He didn't realize that Peter wasn't happy, that the Peter he caught at the bottom of the stairs was Peter after a rough month. Now he notices. He suspects he deserves credit for the change. Hopes. 

Gwen is still a recurring character in Peter's thoughts, Harry thinks, not entirely disinterestedly, but her name seems to have moved down in the credits somewhat.

Peter climbs over the railing, poses on the prow, arms aloft. "I'm the king of the world!"

"Jesus," Harry says, adjusting his sunglasses. "I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

"Woohoo!"

"Dork," Harry says. It comes out a shade too fond. Peter grins over at him. Harry wonders if he notices. 

"You know you want to."

"I'd rather not die."

"You're not gonna die."

"I have a rule against reenacting Titanic on boats. It seems like asking for it."

"Live a little. Come on. Trust me."

"No," Harry says. "I will pass."

"Come on," Peter says, turning wide brown eyes on him.  
"Don't pull that face on me, Parker," Harry says. "You know I can't take it.""I know," Peter says, pouting deliberately, and Harry thinks,  _do you_ _even notice how you sound, how we sound together? Maybe it's because it's us that you don't._ "C'mon."Harry heaves an exasperated sigh, moves cautiously toward the railing. "There he is," Peter says. "The things I do for you." Harry sneaks a glance at the water, suppresses a shudder.  
"You trust me, right?" Peter asks. "Here."Harry catches his hand, lets Peter pull him over the railing, stands petrified a few seconds clutching him. Perhaps a few seconds more than terror strictly demands. Peter is warm and smells like cheap deodorant and sweat and -- Harry tries to play it cool, like he doesn't want to bury his face in Peter's lumpy sweater and just stay there like that forever. Like the scent isn't intoxicating. He is not sure he entirely succeeds. But Peter doesn't stop him. They stand there like that. "See?" Peter says. "Yes," Harry says. "I see. Very nice. Such a view, Peter." "You're terrified.""I'm not terrified. I just think that now I've broken my Titanic rule it might be prudent to take the boat in.""Oh, please," Peter says. "You're the exception to all kinds of rules, Harry." Then Peter reaches over and ruffles his hair. 

Harry's retort freezes on his lips. He looks up at Peter through the mess of his elaborate hair and Peter winks. He can't be mistaking this, he thinks. If he is, Peter is just being cruel. Or maybe he doesn't know what he's doing. Or -- he must know, Harry thinks. Oh, this is impossible. Peter Parker is giving him hope. 

\--

"Do you want to hear something crazy?" Harry asks. 

His feet are up on a leather ottoman and he has half a glass of scotch in one hand, watching Peter Parker on the opposite couch. Peter's ensconced himself in one corner like he doesn't know what to do with so much room, even though he's so tall now. It's oddly endearing. 

Things have to come to a head, Harry thinks. These lazy long impossible days have spun out into weeks and -- something has to give. He's going to claw his hair out. No, not the hair. But something. This hope is a slow worm eating him from the inside. He feels lightheaded. He has to do this, he thinks. He wonders if he looks as pale as he feels.

"Do I look strange?" he asks.

"Not stranger than usual," Peter says. "Was that the crazy thing, because if so, Harry, I have to say—"

"Not stranger than usual?"

"You look amazing," Peter says, pausing to look at him, and there's just that little edge to it that has been making Harry wonder if Peter is doing this on purpose.

"Thank you," Harry says.

"You're welcome." Peter grins. "What was the crazy thing?"

"Never mind," Harry says. He pours Peter more scotch.

"What?" Peter says. "You can tell me."

"I'm not drunk enough."

"I would say you're more than drunk enough," Peter says, raising an eyebrow, all warm mock-disdain, and Harry has to look away a moment. That smile is blinding.

"You were how I realized I was gay," Harry hears himself saying.

Peter nearly drops the glass, somehow rescues it a fraction of an inch above the floor. "So, uh," he says, eloquently. "So, you're gay?"

"Yes, Parker," Harry says.

"Wow," Peter says. "Wow. Harry. That's. Congratulations! Congratulations, man!"

"Thank you?" Harry says, unable to keep from smiling.

"That's just – wow. Good for you, dude."

Harry picks up the scotch and pours Peter some more.

"So wait, so, I did what, again?" Peter says.

"You were my first crush," Harry says, trying to keep enough irony in his tone that he and Peter can wind up laughing at nine year-old Harry and his crazy ideas of romance.

"Oh my God," Peter says. "I turned you."

"You didn't turn me," Harry says, wondering how this became a joke. "Obviously that isn't how it works, it would have been someone—"

"Harry I'm – wow – I'm honored, man. Flattered and – what did it for you? Was it the braces?"

Harry grins. "It was the unibrow," he says.

"Was it actually?" Peter waggles his eyebrows.

"I thought you would stop flirting with me when you knew," Harry says, pouring himself more scotch.

"Would you call this flirting? I didn't think that was—"

"Is this how you talk to everyone?"

Peter shrugs, shrinks a little. "I don't talk to that many people."

"Well I'm glad you talk to me," Harry says, "and not to lots of other people who might take advantage."

"You're not going to take advantage?" Peter asks. Harry pours him more scotch. His hand is shaking and he thinks it would still shake if he weren't Harry Osborn. Peter sounds almost – disappointed.

"You want me to?" he asks, and – it's perfect, he thinks, the words land just the right pitch, their eyes meet just that fraction of a moment that counts, his blue eyes hold Peter's brown ones, the corner of his mouth twists up, there's just that hint of suggestion that has driven football players to shove him rudely up against the corner of a locker and start plundering his mouth. He knows how to play this hand. He was, he thinks ruefully, perhaps too popular at boarding school.

Peter hesitates, looking incredulous. "You want to?" he asks, and there's that crack in his voice. "Still?"

I've won, Harry thinks. He tries to keep the triumph out of his tone. He moves to the couch, settles in the center leaning into Peter's corner. "You still have the unibrow," he says. "After all."

Peter laughs, quick, nervous. Then their eyes meet, and he stops. "I should tell you, I don't think I'm gay," he says. "I mean, I think I'm not. I think I'm." Swallow. "I'm straight, Harry."

"Oh," Harry says, incandescent grin now, reaching in to straighten Peter's collar, and Peter lets him, Peter gives a little shudder when his fingers brush along the skin there and Harry thinks, _you are going to be the death of me_ , leans nearer. "Is that all?" He's so near he can see the faint gooseflesh rising along Peter's neck. Harry kisses him there first. He can feel Peter's sudden intake of breath, the way his pulse starts up. "You're just curious," he mutters, under Peter's chin, lips moving along the line of Peter's jaw up to his ear. "Anyway most of the guys I've slept with have been straight," he kisses into Peter's ear, and Peter starts to say something that sounds like "oh" but Harry moves in, bites the word off his lips, and – he will say one thing for Peter Parker, he may very well be straight, but he is more than willing to be seduced.

Peter is shy of kissing him these first few seconds, but Harry can feel his breathing quicken. The kiss is chaste. Just lips. He tries to use it to say something. _Just let me kiss you_ , he thinks, _don't be frightened, it'll be good, just let me show you how good it can be_. Peter's eyes are shut. He watches them, waits for them to open. Finally they do. Their eyes meet. He smiles against Peter's lips. Peter half-laughs, still nervous, and his lips part. The kiss becomes something else. He manages to pin Peter back against the cushions and suddenly something seems to click into place, Peter is tasting him back, Peter's mouth is hungry too, for him or for what he isn't sure, but it is everything he's dreamed of, he is straddling Peter's lap and – oh _\-- Oh._ Peter is hard.

Harry pulls back for air, shoots him a look that falls somewhere between quizzical and cocky. 

"Like I said," Peter manages -- and, oh god, his voice, Harry never thought he would hear Peter Parker's voice like that -- "you're the exception to a lot of rules."

"Am I?" Harry asks. He can't help sounding smug. "So, is your curiosity satisfied?"

"I, uh," Peter starts, and— his voice is ruined and perfect – "no, nuh-uh, I don't think it is."

Harry kisses his cheek. Then they're kissing again, hard. Peter doesn't do anything with his hands but Harry doesn't mind – Peter's mouth is more than willing enough, now. Harry traces a thumb down his neck,

"Shit," Peter says, the next time Harry pulls back to survey his handiwork.

Harry grins.

"Well, shit," Peter says again, and this time it's Peter who leans in for more, and Peter kisses him like he's a new equation that might account for everything. Harry lets him. Harry pushes him back against the couch, straddles him, and Peter's hips shift up towards him. Peter ruffles his hair. The gesture feels like it belongs here. Like this is what it has always wanted to be. Harry can't help the little noise he makes. His hand moves instinctively for Peter's fly; he's got the zipper down (fluency born of long practice) before Peter pulls back enough to give him a quizzical look.

"Trust me," Harry says. "I know what I'm doing."

"I believe you," Peter says. "I mean, only—" but he shifts a little to let Harry slide the jeans down off his hips, and the sentence doesn't end. Harry can't figure out where to look when he does this. The eyes? They're so wide and he worries he'll show too much. He brings his hand up to his mouth to wet the fingers and Peter lets out another exquisite broken sound, and then Harry's hand wraps around him, begins to stroke, and he can't help the grin that spreads across his face as Peter's eyes widen and his mouth goes slack.

"I told you to trust me," he says. He can tell Peter's struggling for a comeback.

"I – trust -- you," Peter says. It's not much of a comeback. Harry leans in and kisses his neck again and Peter almost moans. The power is intoxicating.

"Do you?" Harry says, his lips tracing the rim of Peter's ear. "Do you, Peter Parker?"

"Uh huh," Peter says, then, "God," then, sweetest of all, "Harry, shit, Harry."

"Like that?" Harry asks. "Tell me how you like it."

"Like that," Peter says. "Jesus."

"Jesus wasn't an Osborn," Harry says, grinning. "Peter, I have a confession to make."

"Yeah?" Peter asks, eyes flickering shut for a second. There's a flush spreading along his neck. It's mesmerizing. "What is it, buddy?"

"I wish I were sucking you off," Harry says.

"You do," Peter says, like the words didn't register.

"I do," Harry says. "I've been told that's where my true skill lies."

It's Peter who leans in for the kiss, again, this time, and this time Peter's mouth is slack and open for him. He could taste Peter like this for hours, slowly and thoroughly, with lips and teeth and tongue. Perhaps they will have hours.

"I believe you," Peter chokes, when he pulls back. "You've got a talented, uh, mouth."

"Yeah?" Harry says.

"Yeah," Peter manages, and then Peter's spending all over his hand. His face is priceless. Harry wants to bottle it and sell it. Afterwards Peter shoots him a sheepish look and Harry grins back, flushed with triumph. Peter makes a fumble for a napkin and Harry reaches in his pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, ignores the quizzical eye-roll.

"What's the point of dressing like this if not an occasion like this?" he asks.

"Is that really why?" Peter asks. "In case you need to get Peter Parker's jizz off your hand?"

"That's why," Harry says, licking a little off the pad of one finger, and Peter makes a face. His mouth is disgusted but his eyes are entranced. Harry glances up at him.

"See, this is unfair," Peter says, suddenly. "You make everything look dirty. You get this, like, this sexy look."

"You sound dirty," Harry says, reaching into his own pants because say what you will about Oscorp it isn't entirely an altruistic organization. "The noises you make. The way your voice gets."

"Yeah?" Peter asks, and then Peter's hand is unzipping his fly.

"You sure?"

"See, that's the look I'm talking about," Peter says. "That look right there."

"I'm glad you find me sexy, Peter," Harry says, just a shade shy of earnest, but Parker doesn't laugh.

"You're gonna have to tell me what you like."

"It shouldn't take much," Harry pants, "I'm fucking close already."

Then warm fingers wrap around him and start to stroke, a little tentative at first, then more assured, and – shit damn, that's all it takes.

"I told you," Harry says. He passes Peter the handkerchief. Peter takes it, wipes his fingers, shy again suddenly, and Harry pulls his hand closer, leans in, takes a finger in his mouth, sucks.

"Harry—" Peter chokes.

"That's what I'm talking about too," Harry murmurs, around him. Peter pulls the hand free, pulls him in for a kiss. It's like a long interview; this round brings new questions and different answers. It is intensely thrilling but not at all satisfying. It seems as though it will require hours to unravel.

"I'm serious," Harry says, pulling back. "That had better not be the last time this happens because I have to blow you at least once before I die."

Peter swallows. Harry watches him. "It won't be?" Peter says, and it almost isn't a question. "Anyway you're not dying any time soon."


End file.
